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So, I’ve got a ton of stuff to say, but none of it is in a form that I want to post, so I decided that I’d do a kind of blog freewrite. Sort of. Maybe not quite so free, not quite so sloppy. But free . . . ish and definitely sloppy.

You’ve gotta love “ish.” Thanks for that one, Lord. And whoever else gave that to us. I mean, it’s not great. But it’s great . . .ish. And somehow that sounds sarcastic, which I didn’t start out meaning it to be. But there it is and maybe rightly so.

This is a blog. This is my blog. So I suppose it makes sense to make it bloggy. I think I’ll go there today. Not many people read this anyway, and those that do probably have at least minimal interest in my life and thought. So here goes. Briefly. No, really; not like I usually end up meaning that.

I woke up this morning (it was morning, though a little late) in a state of clarity. It’s funny how that happens–in the morning, I mean, and especially on the weekends when I’ve actually slept. There’s something about the combination of rest and coming out of that less-inhibited, less-filtered, more-believing, more-open, altered state of consciousness that is sleep. Sleep is good.

And sleep–dreamy, REMish sleep, in particular–is a little like speaking in tongues. Yeah, you can argue that both of them are nonsense, but it seems to me that they’re both just transrational. And absolutely, IMO, necessary. Sure: scattered, semichaotic images and sounds. But there’s an efficacy there. And “there” is the right word. It’s a place, a place where healing can occur, where we let down the guard just long enough for the Spirit to slip in. Because the truth is, for all of our protestations to the contrary, we are constantly contending against the works of Grace.

So, revelation. And I felt the need to write. I didn’t want to lose the moment, so I actually used pen and a journal that I keep by my bed but rarely write in. And I journaled and wept (not continual weeping, but some very good and occasionally very deep weeping) until I’d filled 18 pages. Which is especially remarkable in that I hate writing more than a few sentences with pen on paper.

And I call it “revelation,” but it’s really just a moment of clarity, which, in that state to which I’ve alluded, is simple, unpretentious, un-self-conscious. Doesn’t even recognize itself as remarkable. It’s only the entry into daythought (which–daythought-I have a hard time not viewing as evil, given it’s oppressive, doubtful tendencies) that renders it special, shows it as an aberration against normalcy. Normalcy sucks, so aberration is decidedly a good thing.

Thank you, God. You are, indeed, the Lord of the Sabbath and the God of dreams.

So, some teasers. My ramblings from this morning are probably too rambley–too long, too profane, too chaotic to just spit them out here. And they might need more shape even for me to keep them in my own thought, let alone introduce them to yours. I must blog them, though. And I may try to preserve their form as much as I can. Who can say? But here are their abstracts, rambley still, but less wordy than that to which they refer. And, please understand, I don’t mean to make complete statements here; rather, consider these fragments a promise, to which I must return.

My relationship with the LORD is in a state of nominally complete deconstruction.

Deb died, as far as I am concerned, at exactly the wrong time. And that pisses me off for all sorts of reasons.

It is very dark here, but God is comfortable and fully aware in the darkness.

God is, in fact, a big Cheater–His seeing in the dark and all.

But I still love Him. How can I not love Him? Really, I’ve asked myself about the possibility and it seems increasingly im-, even in the midst of what is an embarrassingly persistent anger. It is embarrassing. I don’t feel like I’m continually angry and I definitely have moments where it’s not on the surface, but whenever I think about it, it sure feels as though it hasn’t gone away. Yes, I am angry. I’d like to tell you that I’m not, but I am. But I can no more deny my love and worship than I can deny my anger. No, it doesn’t make sense.

I haven’t given up on God. It turns out, as far as I can tell, that that’s even part of the anger.

We are rebuilding, God and I. I hope mostly God, because, as I think is abundantly clear, I’m clueless and otherwise not with the program.

I and my blog must be a no bulls*** zone. But this is variously problematic.

That’s all I’m gonna say for now. I’ve probably already violated (as I am wont to do) the “leave them wanting more” principle. Oh, and this is brief.